Magic Mike

             I was wrapped up in bed with Mike, bundled under the covers last weekend, when I glanced over at my nightstand.  On it…a bottle of lube, three condoms, and a can of bean dip.  Those three items were getting me through the blizzard.  And Mike wasn’t hurting either.  No heat.  No electricity.  No hot water.  Thankfully, we were generating our own brand of heat.  Mike, a friend with benefits, was visiting from Manhattan.  We’ve known each other for a few years.  We never really hung out a lot, unless it was horizontal.  So this was the first time we ever spent any length of time together, much less dinner and a whole weekend.  And I was pleasantly surprised.  When I rolled over and saw those three items, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You have to write about that,” he said.  “Just change my name to Mike.”

             So his wish has been granted.  He got here on Thursday, and I assumed that it was just going to be a weekend of sex.  But when the temperature started dropping, my feelings started warming.  To my huge surprise.  We’ve been hooking up for a few years off and on, but this was different.  We were actually talking, actually having a conversation.  There was more passion, more intimacy, more laughs.  And when he left on Sunday, I was wistful and more than a little sad.  And then I began to get irrationally angry.  I began to question why no guy has ever stuck around long enough to know how I like my steak cooked.  And it’s not like I haven’t dated.  I’ve been to every type of restaurant with every type of cuisine.  I’ve been to movies and plays and ballets and museums and hikes and walks and coffees.  Hell, I’ve even been taken to Hooters.  But that was only because he had a coupon for their coconut shrimp.  So I’ve definitely tried.  It’s just that none seemed to take.

            My first boyfriend, Andy, was twenty-five.  I was only twenty-nine at the time, but we were decades apart.  Maturity wasn’t his strong suit.  I was physically attracted to him, and I thought his lack of social skills was charming.  But just that does not a relationship make.  We had a ball together though.  He was sexy and amusing and sweet.  He was also argumentative, manipulative, and somewhat of a slut.  But according to my therapist, I was needy and co-dependent.  So I dated him for about nine months.  However, the labor pains got too intense, so I broke up with him.  Then wanted him back.  Then broke up with him again.  Then wanted him back again.  Finally, he did me a favor and started dating some crack addict.  That was after he took me to Hooters.

I dated sporadically after that in Birmingham.  An older doctor who turned out to be married.  A winner of a guy who I dumped because I couldn’t handle the fact that he was black.  Ignorance tended to creep up on me in the South.

“You didn’t notice I was black when I asked you out?”

“It was dark in the bar,” was my attempt at humor.

It didn’t work.

            And back in New York, I’ve dated some doozies.  There was Michael the bartender who I met a few months after I moved there.  I was in Duane Reade on the afternoon of my first New Years’ Eve in the city.  I called and asked him to meet me later for a drink.  I didn’t know anyone else, and he knew it.

            “Don’t you have any other friends here?” he asked.

            That was the first and only time I’ve cried in the moisturizer aisle at Duane Reade.

            Then there was Adam who was in an open relationship.  I fell in love.  The entire time, he never told me he was leaving his boyfriend.  The entire time, I knew in my mind that he was going to leave his boyfriend.  Then he didn’t call me for two months.  So I naturally assumed the boyfriend won out.  I was right.

            And how can I forget the guy who dumped me via email, the guy who believed he was abducted by a UFO, and the guy who peed on my shoes?

            There was a keeper or two in the bunch though.  Christopher the attorney for Miramax.  He had a great apartment.  A great job.  The sex was amazing.  And he knew Meryl Streep!  Alas, I always follow my heart.  And my heart still wanted Adam.  I was in the throes of missing him and accepting the fact that our relationship was over.  At my last meeting with Christopher, I told him I wanted to take it slow.

            “But I don’t want to take it slow.  I really like you, and I want to be with you.”

            “I just need some time.”

            “You’re just not as into me as I am into you.”

            There they were.  The words I’ve thought to myself in every single relationship I have ever been in.  And rarely had the guts to say out loud.  It pierced to think that I was causing someone else the angst that those words can bring.  But I was.

            Funny how when I start getting sentimental about men, the episode with Christopher is what I sometimes come back to.  Maybe because, if not for the timing, I would be hosting fabulous dinner parties and regaling Meryl with stories from the deep South.  But most likely it’s just the universe reminding me that love is not a guarantee like never finding a taxi in the rain.  That some things are just not meant to be.  And that dating is a two-way street.  Both people share the triumphs, and both people share the blame.

           A little while after I watched Mike drive away, I began to calm down again and laugh at myself for getting so irritated.  And it hit me.  The warm and fuzzy feelings I had all weekend weren’t all totally directed toward Mike.  Sure, a lot of it was.  I’m not one that can turn my feelings off when I’m having sex with the same guy five times a day.  But most of the warm and fuzzies were because it made me remember romance.  I had gotten so cynical in New York and was too satisfied with one-night stands and chasing guys who weren’t interested.  It was refreshing to be in close quarters with someone all weekend who wanted to be there too.  So the weekend reminded me that I do want romance, a relationship.  Sure, a one-night stand or two will come my way again.  But ultimately, that’s not what I want.  I want good old-fashioned romance with a good old-fashioned guy.  Who knew a blizzard and a weekend of sex would make me realize that?  They say Provincetown is magical in the winter.  Last weekend, though, was something else.

            So Mike…thanks for the magic.

 

 

No One Is Alone

Having already finished “Guns” class and “Ass Blast”, I was halfway finished with the final leg of the torture trifecta that had become my exercise regime, “Six Pack Attack.”  Because a winning personality is not what stops gay men in their tracks in an overcrowded bar, I figured the triple combination of sculpted arms, a washboard stomach, and a firm butt would do it.  And just when I was about to throw the towel in—and my dumbbells at the instructor—I saw him.  I would later learn his name was Rick.  But at that moment, I just knew him as God.  Except I’m pretty sure that the God I was taught about in Sunday School didn’t wear muscle shirts.  I kept staring at him, totally forgetting where I was and what I was doing.  He was a giant, well over 6’4”.  At least two-hundred twenty pounds.  But built solid.  And one of the most handsome faces.  He caught me looking and smiled.  I immediately turned away but after a few seconds, I couldn’t help myself so I looked back.  He was still staring at me.  And smiling.  I smiled and caught a glance of myself in the mirror.  Shit! I was doing the wrong exercise. 

            Later after the foreplay known as gym, I was walking out of the locker room downstairs, which looked like a hotel spa.  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

            “Hi,” a masculine voice behind me said.

            I turned around.  It was him.

            “I’m Rick.  You are?”

            “Uh.  Craig.  Yeah, Craig.  And I usually can always keep up in class.  And I rarely ever notice anyone else around me because I try to be so focused on what I’m doing, because I try to take the gym very seriously, and…”  I stopped and thought better of my diatribe.

            His eyes sparkled.

            “Come here often?” I asked.

            And then I winced.

            “How about dinner?  My treat,” he replied.

            His treat?  That was all I needed to hear.

            The date was nice.  He took me to Pesce Trattoria, a rustic Italian restaurant in the Village.  Conversation was easy.  For him.  For me, it was a different story.  I just don’t do well with guys that look like models in Men’s Health magazine.  Color me insecure, but it’s hard to scarf down spaghetti and meatballs while talking about cardio.  But he was very pleasant and patient and quite sweet.  Even when I spilled my wine.  Thoughts were racing through my mind.  I felt like I was in high school all over again.  Except then it was dates with girls, and they were asking me for fashion tips.

            “What do you do for a living?” I got a grip and asked.

            “I’m an actor.  I’ve done some independent films.  Low-budget kind of stuff.  Next time at dinner, I’ll bring you a couple of DVD’s.”

            Well that was promising.  He already was planning a second date.  I must not have been such a dreadful bore after all.  And there was a bonus.  I’ve always wanted to be a star-fucker.  Here was my chance!

            At that moment, I think the wine kicked in because I became the star of the party.  I was finally able to keep my inhibitions at bay and talk like an adult.  I learned he is originally from Greece and wants to be the next Brad Pitt, without all the kids.  He learned that I’m originally from Alabama and that I want to be the next David Sedaris, only cuter.

            Before I knew it, two hours passed.  We said goodnight, and he gave me a nice long kiss.  A good kisser too.  The plusses were adding up fast.  By the time I got home, I received a text asking me out for dinner the following week.  I said a quick “thank you” to the inventors of “Ass Blast” and jumped in the shower.

            That was four years ago.  Last week, he killed himself.  I’m not sure how or why.  Our “relationship” only lasted a couple of weeks.  We had drinks one more time after that initial meeting.  And of course, two rounds of rough sex.  Great rough sex that sent me to the chiropractor.  And then we just sort of lost touch.  I’m not sure how or why of that either.  I’d see him around the city every once in a while.  We would smile and say hello, but that’s about it.  He was just so vibrant and alive, so this was a shock to say the least.  I still have his phone number programmed into my cell phone and an email from him in my inbox.  I think I’ll keep them.  It will make it a little harder to remember he’s not still working out in that gym in New York City.  I don’t know…and I’m glad I don’t know…how it feels to want to end your life.  To feel so dejected that you just give up hope.  Because sometimes, hope is all we’ve got. 

            So for the man who gave me four mind-numbing orgasms and a gigantic ego boost just by saying “Hi” at the gym…this one’s for him.  I’m sorry he didn’t find what he was looking for.  I’m sorry he didn’t reach out to anyone.  I’m sorry that he couldn’t see any light around him.  And I hope that wherever his soul is now…I hope he finds what he couldn’t find here on Earth.

 Peace.